Eighteen Years
by JessInWonderland
Summary: Violent lives lead to violent ends. After years of going with the flow with fate, Kenny decides to make his own. Content contains themes of suicide and death. This is my first fan-fic ever! Please R/R.


**A/N: First of all, I would like to make it clear that I do not own, nor do I have any connections with the creators of South Park. Secondly, this is my first fan-fiction....ever. It's short just to test the waters. I'm not sure if it makes sense to anyone other than myself, but we shall see.**

**Warning! If you are easily upset, do not read this. This story contains themes of death and suicide.  
**

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry..." Words with no meaning seeped from chapped lips. Lifeless baby blues stared blankly into the black abyss. Every breath was a gasp to hold on; every exhale, a puff of warmth that rose slowly like clouds into the cold winter air. The pain didn't bother him, it never had. He had grown used to the feeling of snapping bones and bullet wounds, electric shocks and drowning. He had succumbed to that familiar dark hundreds of times without even batting a single blond lash. Eighteen years, he had been caught in the vicious cycle of life and death and for eighteen years, he had never even questioned why. Who was he to interfere with the balance of the world, anyway? Just a poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks. The kind of boy that was too easily addicted to pain killers and alcohol, sex and trying the newest high. He was nothing... A nobody. That was exactly why he took his fate as it came. Or, he had until tonight.

_December twelve, 11:42 P.M. Kenneth James McCormick paces back and forth in his room. He is currently inebriated by the pain killer, OxyContin and in his delirious state, begins to ramble incoherently to himself. 11:54 P.M. Kenneth, also known as Kenny, stops his pacing and takes a seat in the middle of the room where he sits in silence for over an hour. He does not move. December thirteen, 1:55 A.M. Kenny finally picks himself off of the floor. It is clear that he is still not in a right state of mind. Moving towards his makeshift bed, a mattress on the floor, he lifts his bedding and pulls out a single razor-blade, quickly shoving it in his parka pocket. 1:58 A.M. He leaves his room and his home in a hurried pace; destination, unknown._

It was terribly beautiful. Crimson splashes against innocent white, like a painting...It was art. He had always considered his life to be like art. He was a canvas for the reaper who simply used him as an output for all of his creative energy. Over the years, he had come to this conclusion. It was soothing and made whatever sort of life this was, a little more bearable. Looking at the gashes, a fierce red against more white which was his flesh, his stomach churned in pleasure..and in complete terror. Eighteen years, he had died in every way humanly imaginable but he had never done this....He had never been the one to end it all.

_ December thirteen, 2:33 a.m. Kenneth McCormick finally stops walking. Taking a look around, he realizes that he has stopped at Stark's Pond and seems content with this. With shaking fingers, Kenny reaches into his parka pocket, pulling out the single blade. Holding it tight within his grasp, he uses his freehand to unzip said parka and slowly pulls it from his form. 2:37 a.m. Kenny takes a seat right in the snow. Turning his head heavenward, his body tremors with the cold as he lifts the blade to his wrist in a vertical direction. Closing his eyes, Kenny digs the metal deep into his flesh, creating a wound from wrist to elbow. Instantly, the wound parts and a crimson flow starts to pour from the broken flesh. Switching hands, he repeats the process with the other arm, throws the blade into the frosting water, and lays back. The time is now 2:42 a.m._

He was scared. Fucking scared. This was too slow, too unmerciful.. He had made a grave mistake. How could he have been so dumb? So lost? Who was he to play this game when he was merely a pawn? Gasping out still, trying to hold on for his last breath of air, dulling baby blues released a few tears before closing. Blueing lips parted and he swallowed back his cries. "I'm sorry..." He was not coming back. Not this time. Eighteen years caught in the balance between life and death and finally, he had ended it. No questions of why, no answers. It was merely how things worked.

_December 13, 3:00 a.m. Taking his last breath, Kenneth James McCormick apologizes before closing his eyes for the final time. His body stills and soon, his skin is as white as the snow that surrounds him. After eighteen years of letting fate decide which path he would take, he decided to turn his back on it all and make his own. Violent lives meet with violent ends, or so they say. A boy died in South Park, Colorado today. He will be missed._


End file.
